In the Time to Come
by Lli
Summary: A collection of A/H shorts. Mostly romantic, but not exclusively. Now including: Strauss, fluff, Paris Hilton, fluff, Hokusai, and fluff.
1. A World Apart

Because communication breaks down, no matter who you are.

Thanks, as always, to ilex-ferox for the fabulous beta-ing.

Disclaimer: usual witticism about neither owning the AF franchise nor being a rich Irishman because of it.

* * *

A World Apart

The sun was not shining. It was never shining when she was around. Sometimes Artemis wished it would. He remembered, years ago, how she had lain on the bonnet of a car and the sun had made her skin golden. Generally, he tried to forget what came after that.

Right now, however, she was laughing. They were lying under a tree on a hill, watching the scene below. The sliver of moon above them was newly risen and its light was weak. It made the lights below seem brighter than they were.

Angeline was throwing a party. On the lawns behind the manor strings of golden lights hung stretched between the trees, illuminating the dancers and the drinkers. The music was nothing Juliet would recognise, but it was energetic enough for the lawn to be full of dancing couples. Everything seemed to glow soft and warm, as though they were watching a film from another world, from another time.

"It looks like fun, Artemis, why are you hiding up here?" She was propped up on her elbows, body pointing down the hill towards the party.

"The company's better," he replied, leaning back as well. "And I don't like dancing."

"Is it because all the music is in 4/4 time?" Holly prodded him with an elbow.

"No." He swatted away her arm. Although his Atlantis Complex was long cured, he didn't appreciate the jibe. "And you should count yourself lucky that Orion isn't here begging you to save him a dance."

She laughed again. "Very true. Point taken. Seriously though, Artemis, why aren't you down there, champagne in one hand, pretty girl in the other?"

Artemis tilted his head to look at her for moment, then he raised his glass to her. "Because I brought a bottle with me and you're quite pretty enough for me."

Holly blushed; he couldn't see the colour rise, but he could tell from the way she dipped her head away from him. "Well," she said, "you're very nice tonight."

"It's only the drink, don't worry yourself."

"You're terrible, Artemis." Laughing again, she waggled her feet unconsciously, keeping time with the music.

"Why aren't _you_ down there?" he asked. "You like to dance."

"How do you know that?"

"Because in another few minutes your feet will have danced off, with or without you," he tilted his glass towards her wiggling appendages.

"I do like to dance. But, and this may have escaped your notice, I'm a fairy. Those are humans."

"I'm a human," he stated, somewhat pointlessly.

"You know, I think speaking to you only gets more confusing the more you drink. I didn't know you could get _more _obscure than you are when sober," Holly mused.

Artemis sighed and put down his glass. "I'm not drunk, you know."

"I know. But I think you're playing at it. What's up, Artemis, needing to cut loose?"

"No," he said, staring away from her towards the dancers.

"Uh huh."

"I simply wanted to spend some time with you. You're the one who's always saying we never get to 'hang out'." His voice was defensive and he poured himself more wine. "I'm sorry if the circumstances aren't to your liking."

"Okay, okay." Holly looked at him, baffled by his reaction. She watched him drink for a moment before laughing and saying, "So, you need to drink to hang out with me, is that it?"

"No!" he glared at her, "now you're being deliberately obtuse."

"Yep, that's me, deliberately obtuse. Artemis, I was just kidding-"

"Well, stop it, Holly. Why are you being so... so..."

"Concerned? Caring?"

"Interfering?"

"You know, Artemis, maybe I will go down and dance with them. You clearly don't care for my company."

"I just said that your company was what I wanted!" Artemis gestured helplessly with his hands, spilling some of the wine.

She looked at him and he looked back. The lights played across their faces, the swaying gold and white illuminating their skin. The night was black above them, the tree behind reaching up to meet it.

"I wish we could dance together," he said suddenly, earnestly.

Holly swallowed. "Down there, you mean."

He nodded.

"Me too."

He took another sip. She watched him drink, contemplating the expression on his face. It was unusual, almost meek: he looked up at her through his lashes, as though worried about what she would say next. She wondered, briefly, if she would ever grow tired of looking at him. She doubted it.

"We can do other things up here though," she said finally. "We can do things they never will."

"I'm sure we already have," he replied, his eyes still wary.

She chuckled and rolled to her feet.

"Are you going?" He looked up, concern catching in his voice.

"No," she said, and came to sit next him, facing him, her back to the lights. "No, I'm not going."

She took his glass away and laid it on the ground, next to the bottle. She brought one hand up to his face, her fingers tracing the skin below his eye where hers used to be. He swallowed and said nothing, both his eyes black as the night in his pale face.

Slowly, she dipped her head and kissed his temple, kissed his cheek, kissed his mouth. His lips were cold and tasted of champagne. She kissed him until they were warm again.

His hands were in her hair when she broke away. "I think most of the people down there have done that before," he said, after a moment.

Holly smiled. "Not like we will, though," she told him. He smiled back. And the lights faded into the black above them, as they lay below a tree on a hill, oblivious to the scene below.


	2. In Defence of the Trope

I got a review for _Parentare _that said, quite rightly, that the diary/video message weren't the most original ideas. While I'm not disagreeing, it did inspire me to write this, which isn't so much a rebuttal as an explanation. And yes, though I haven't read TLG, I ended up reading part one Wolfraven's awesome post-TLG threesome before I realized what I'd done. By then, of course, I was hooked.

Beta-ing huzzahs to ilex-ferox.

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In Defence of the Trope

Sometimes my mind wanders. It's not my fault: I work twelve hour nights more often than not and it gets _boring_ sitting at a desk, authorizing request forms, reading reports from the lucky ones who haven't been promoted. Who still get to go topside and breathe real air. It's not like I wanted to be promoted, I wasn't _trying_ to save the world. I mean, I was, I just hadn't _meant_ to try to save - oh, never mind.

Anyway, whatever, my mind wanders. I imagine – Frond, the things I imagine. Sometimes I am so glad it's illegal to mesmerise another fairy because I would have the most embarrassing things to say. It's nothing unusual, not by any standards. I mean, except that one, glaring ... well, exception. To be honest, most of the time it's just mundane stuff. You know, like what he'd say when I told him about the few (and far between) highlights of my day. You could take the whole family to 95% of my daydreams.

But that's the thing though, isn't it? That's what's so embarrassing. Here I am, the first female LEPrecon major ever; I've helped save the world more times than I care to count, I've fought trolls and goblins and demented pixies and, well, the list could go on forever. I am a badass, for the love of Frond! And all I want to do is get a surface visa and go have tea and a cuddle. It's just, I'm just ... isn't the inside of my brain supposed to be more groundbreaking than that?

Which isn't to say I don't think about other things. I do. I think about the course I'm teaching on hand-to-hand combat, I think about Foaly's new foal, I think about possible modifications for the next Neutrino model. Lots of stuff.

Foaly once asked me if I didn't miss a 'normal' life. I said no. Which is true. There's this overpowering mix of terror and joy and power that comes with what I do and I could never give that up. It's addictive; more so than any drug. It's like our magic, the way it floods through you and hones every sensation until it cuts like glass, like diamonds. Everything you feel is crystalline and sharp, even when the world is completely mad. It never lasts, but while it does, I feel - I feel, well ... indescribable.

Not to mention, if I had a normal life, then I'd never even have met him, would I? Then all of my daydreams would be _completely_ unremarkable and therefore even more embarrassing.

I'm beginning to think, though, that maybe I do - in a very small, very secret way - want everything to work out like one of those silly human fairy tales. Where everyone goes home happy in the end. Sure, my life at the moment is boring: I'm here, sitting at this desk. But my life as a whole never seems to slow down: it's one fiasco after another. I feel like I've been fighting evil pixies for decades. So yes, when I get a break, when I'm bored behind a desk, I daydream. And I daydream in clichés. Fine. I can admit that.

I know a lot of people dream about love; about a love that lasts and runs deep, deeper than death, longer than life. I don't. I don't need to. I have that. What I dream about are the banalities: the "how was your day?"s; the mugs of tea; the smell of newly washed hair and skin and sheets; the arguments about paint colours; the ability to roll over and see bleary eyes and messy hair and say "good morning" as the sun comes through the window. I dream about these things because that's what I'll never have.

And maybe I'm lucky; people always say it's the little things that get you, in the end. But would dirty clothes left lying around really be a deal-breaker if "I told you that you were responsible for my mother's life-threatening illness, but that's not actually true" wasn't? Could be, who knows? Not that I think Artemis would leave dirty clothes lying around, that would probably be me, but, either way, it would be nice to have the chance to find out.

Do I wish I were in love with some outdoorsy elf that I could see after work and maybe go spelunking with on the weekends? Sure, sometimes; just not if there was a chance I could spend that weekend arguing with Artemis about his terrible hairdos instead. I mean, _seriously_, hair shouldn't be hard to the touch.

Look, in the end, I guess, everyone needs something to dream about. Something to hold onto, you know, to get them through all the shit. And if my dream is to lie around, watching a movie with a clone who's, unfortunately, just as patronizing as the original, then fine. _Fine_. There's nothing I can do about it.

Honestly, there's nothing I want to do about it.


	3. The Odd One Out

Disclaimer: see previous chapters.

A little bit of bitter-sweetness for you. Their eyes always were a favourite of mine and now her brown eye is the only one of its kind.

Heaps of gratitude to ilex-ferox who has been beta-ing like a fiend for me the past few days.

* * *

The Odd One Out

It is impossible, she decides, to sit and think of all that has gone before. There's so much of it and, if she lets her mind linger, it rises up and engulfs her. Not with regret, _per se_, but with an aching sort of hopelessness. There is nothing above the world or below it that can bring back what is passed.

In his face there is one thing, one detail, glanced over by everyone else, which makes that ache rise in her stomach. It's nothing compared to what could have been lost, it's nothing in the scope of all that they have overcome. It's silly, she knows, but the sadness it brings is overwhelming. Perhaps because it stands for so much more.

He's talking, recounting a trip with the twins. He's smiling and it makes the corners of his eyes crinkle, the delicate white skin folding over itself, creating shadows and hidden places. It makes her look at his eyes. So clear and bright and blue. Unconsciously, she touches her own blue eye. She had become so used to seeing her eyes reflected back at her that she had forgotten the way things used to be.

She remembers the sudden, sharp shock of seeing his eyes open for the first time. How she had felt - only for a second - repulsed. Whose eyes were those? Who was this? Where was Artemis? Her Artemis? But then he had spoken and the moment passed, the revulsion dissolving into relief and joy and tears.

Now that his memory is restored and he's just as she remembers, except the toe, except that new maturity hovering somewhere along his jaw line, she feels nothing but joy. Except for the eyes. When she looks into his eyes she feels the sadness. She feels it wrench her body apart, until she is nothing but a gaping wound from head to toe, raw and open and bleeding out. Suddenly she'll remember how close it had been, how close she had come to losing – what, exactly? She doesn't like to think about it. She looks away instead: at his hands, his hair, the horizon, anything.

"Does it disturb you?" he asks suddenly, interrupting his own story.

"What?" she stumbles, caught off-guard. "Does what disturb me?"

"My face," he replies.

"Your – what? What are you talking about, Artemis?" Unconsciously, she leans away.

"Your inability to look me in the eyes, Holly. Did you think I hadn't noticed?" His voice is uncommonly soft. Tentatively, he lays a hand on hers. Her fingers curl around his automatically; it's still a thrill to feel warmth beneath his skin.

"There's nothing to notice," she says, resolutely looking away; at their hands, his hair, the horizon, anything.

"Holly." He's coaxing her now. He's gentle, soft, like he almost never is. She bites her lip.

"It's nothing, Artemis," she repeats. "Really. I swear." But she doesn't meet his eyes.

"Is it because they're blue again?" His body tilts parallel to hers, his hair falling forward as he tries to see her face.

She makes a noise somewhere between a sigh and a chuckle. "You're too clever for your own good, Artemis; you know that, right?"

"I've been told as much," he says, "but I'm not sure I believe it."

She smiles at her lap.

"Look at me," he says. She hesitates. "Please, Holly."

He will always be able to undo her, she realises. Whether it's with his eyes, with his words or with a simple gesture; what he is takes her apart. It always has and it always will. He unravels her, thread by thread, until she lies undone in his hands. There is nothing he can ask of her that she will not do. It thrills her and it terrifies her. A shiver shakes her bones and her fingers tighten around his. Gods, she came so close... She looks up.

His eyes are so blue. Her heart breaks all over again, her breath scrapes on the bloody sides of the wound. _Oh gods, oh gods,_ she thinks, but she doesn't look away.

"Does it disturb you?" he asks. "To see them both blue again, I mean. It must be strange."

"Strange is... not the word I would use," she manages.

"What word would you use?"

"Gut wrenching." She speaks without thinking and he recoils, clearly hurt. "No," she says, keeping hold of his hand as he tries to pull away, "no, I – it's not the way it sounds. It's... I just... every time I look you in the eyes, I remember how close I – we – came to losing you and I – it just... it just hurts. It _hurts_, Artemis." She looks away at last, blinking furiously to keep tears from falling.

"We've been through so much," she begins again, "we've lost things and won things and been places we can never be again. Been _people_ we can never be again, done things we can never –" she falters, looking up again. "When I see your eyes like this I remember everything, all the things we've ever done, and I just wish I could hold on to all of it tighter so that it'll never get lost. So that _we'll_ never get lost. So that the things we've done won't..."

"Won't what?"

"Won't fade away."

"We're the heroes of Haven, Holly," he smiles wryly. "Nothing we've done will ever be forgotten."

Her smile is just as dry. "There are some things we've done, Artemis, which no one knows about. There are some things we've kept to ourselves."

He nods thoughtfully, understanding her meaning. "Some things, yes," he agrees slowly. "Would you like everyone to know about them as well?"

She shakes her head. "No. No, I'm jealous of our secrets. I want to keep everything to ourselves. Just so long as I get to _keep _it. Because these days I'm so afraid of losing – of losing -" Unconsciously, she grips his fingers tighter.

"You've lost nothing, Holly. We're everything we have ever been. Possibly more," he wiggles his foot pointedly. She laughs, as he wants her to, but they lapse into silence and she is unconvinced.

"I think," he continues eventually, his thumb running back and forth along her knuckles, "that some things are precious to us because we believe them to be the only one of their kind, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes," she says. She looks at him out of the corner of her eye, puzzled.

"If we had other things to think about," he is speaking slowly, thoughtfully, "new things, better things, do you think you would be less worried about all the ones that came before?"

"I - yes," she feels silly repeating herself, but her breath is stuck somewhere in her throat and his eyes are so, so blue. "I suppose."

"Do you want to keep _me_ all to yourself?" he asks, his voice changed, his eyes suddenly darker. His face is at once familiar and strange.

She is held by his eyes, unable to move away. Once again he has caught all her threads in his fingers and unravelled them to see what lies at the heart of her.

"Yes," she says, and now she is breathless.

He smiles. She is the first person to have ever made him smile like that: happily, openly. His hand leaves hers and comes to her face. He is so close to her all of a sudden. Her breath returns, fast and uneven, as their bodies tilt parallel to each other's. "You know," he says, and she can feel his lips move against the skin of her cheek, "this new body, it has never kissed another living creature."

"Not even your mother?" she asks, trying to concentrate.

"No one," he says, and his lips brush her cheek.

She clings to him then. To his living, breathing, body. Instead of sadness and yearning, she feels only gratitude. Her hands in his hair, holding tightly, she kisses him. Kisses this new body, this new Artemis. The feeling is the same. The rushing, pounding of their blood, the joy, the relief, the love. It's the same as it ever was. He was right: nothing had been lost, only gained.

He rests his head on her shoulder and she knows that he too has come undone. They are too entangled together for one to be taken unravelled without the other. She holds the threads of him in her hands and marvels at all she can see.

"I suppose," he says, his voice muffled by her clothes, "that now you are going to say that my elf-kissing days are over? History has such a nasty habit of repeating itself."

"Not this time, I hope," she says, her arms around his neck. "Besides," she murmurs, speaking into his skin, "I think you're right, people don't worry as much when they have something to look forward to."

He chuckles. "Yes, I'm terribly clever, aren't I?"

She holds him tighter. "Luckily for us," she says.


	4. Filling the Void

This is a strange little drabble. I blame it on the bizarre combination of John Green's _Crash Course: Literature_ and Angela Carter's _The Bloody Chamber_. Posted un-beta-ed so all (the many) mistakes are mine and mine alone. Enjoy?

'Jaggedy' may or may not be a real word. Spellcheck says not, but I am refusing to listen.

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Filling the Void

Holly sipped her tea and No.1 sipped his. It was, Holly had to admit, nearly as good as an actual coffee date. Neither she nor No.1 were very touchy-feely so neither the screen nor hundreds of thousands of miles between them made much difference. The weather on the moon was much as it always was: dim. The weather in Haven was, much as it always was, fake. Through the window behind No.1's head, she could see the universe gaping black and eternal, speckled with stars which swung pale and beckoning, like the lamps of lost sailors above a dark and endless sea. The emptiness of it frightened her. She couldn't help but imaging falling through it; falling and falling forever through the dark, the stars unable to catch her; how beautiful it would be, and how terrible.

"You don't look so good," No.1 said. "A little peaky, like you need to eat."

Holly laughed. "I don't need to eat, No.1, I just had lunch."

"Are you sure? You look gaunt."

"Not a lot of people to talk to up on the moon?" Holly smiled at his word choice.

The imp sighed loudly. "There are people, they just don't like it when I'm... verbose. They like short sentences. Short and to the point." He grinned suddenly. "'Short and To The Point'! You should start a band!"

"Maybe when I retire," said Holly. "Or maybe never."

No.1 pouted. "But seriously, Holly, aren't you sleeping well?"

"I... I've just got a lot of things on my mind these days, No.1, that's all."

"Things like what? Haven's back up and running, Artemis is alive and well, I hear you're getting a promotion, what's on your mind? Is it me? Do you miss me that much?" He grinned at her, showing his sharp, jaggedy teeth.

"Of course I miss you, No.1, you're my only normal friend."

"Holly, I think you may need to redefine your idea of 'normal'. Either that or make more friends."

Holly chuckled. "I mean, you're the easiest to talk to, that's all."

"What about Foaly?"

"Foaly gets distracted."

"By his own genius?"

"Something like that."

"What about Trouble? Or aren't you two speaking to each other?"

"We're speaking to each other, No.1, this isn't 2nd grade and it was only three dates."

"I meant after the whole 'you illegally cloned a dead human' debacle."

"Oh. Right. _That_. He got over it."

"So? Are you saying I'm more normal than Trouble? Because I might get offended. And I can still turn you into a newt from the moon."

"Okay, normal wasn't the right word to use. Trouble's just... well..."

"Boring? One-dimensional? Thuggish?"

"He's not thuggish, No.1, just... not... as intellectually minded as some."

"Uh huh. Well, what about Artemis? He's intellectually minded."

Holly bit her lip and looked off screen at something No.1 couldn't see.

"It's... complicated."

"Complicated," No.1 echoed, his voice disbelieving. "More complicated than usual? I'd've thought things would get simpler now that no crazy pixie was trying to murder you."

"Well, yes, _that's_ simpler. But not having to run around saving the world just frees up time to think about... other... things."

"Such as...? No.1 prompted.

"Look, I've been busy, I haven't had time to visit him lately, okay?" Holly changed tact abruptly, downing the last of her tea in one swift gulp.

"You've been avoiding him, you mean."

"What? No. Why would I be avoiding Artemis?"

"Unresolved sexual tension," pronounced No.1, steepling his fingers.

Holly would have spat out her tea if she hadn't already swallowed it. "You've been reading Mud Man fanfiction again, haven't you? I should never have lent you my X-Files boxed set; I knew it would end badly."

"I'm serious, Holly."

"And so am I! He's not even twenty yet. That's young either way."

"Well, _legally_ he's-"

"Don't, No.1." There was something in her voice that gave him pause.

When he began again, his voice was softer, gentler, coaxing her. "Holly, you can tell me. I used to live on an island with psychotic, blood-thirsty demon warriors. Nothing you say is going to shock me. Besides, I'm you're only normal friend. You can tell me."

Holly looked at her friend and her eyes were so sad and dark that his heart, young and care-free and sarcastic as it was, ached.

"I took Human Culture as an elective in university," she said, seemingly at random; No.1 knew better than to interrupt. "We read some Mud Man books. The really classic ones, you know. It was pretty fun, actually. They've got a way with words that we don't. They're so much more extreme than we are, so awful but so... so beautiful at the same time; like they have to make up for everything they do; like they're part of some cosmic system of checks and balances. Anyway, we read this one play, during our English-language portion, called Romeo and Juliet."

"I love that play!"

"Well, I thought it was dumb."

"_What_? But it's one of the most epic love stories of all time! You thought it was _dumb_?" No.1 moaned, clearly in psychological anguish.

Holly smiled wryly. "In the span of thirty-six hours Romeo goes from madly in love with one girl to married to another to dead. How is that not dumb? Besides, they made such a big deal out of everything. Everyone just needed to calm down a bit and think about things."

The imp snorted. "Right, because you always take the level-headed approach."

"You don't need to worry, No.1, I get it now." She smiled, but it was a sad sort of smile.

No.1 grew serious once more. "You do?"

"Yes," she toyed with her mug, "yes, I get it. Being caught between what you want and what you are... between what you _need_ and what you are, it's not as easy as it looks from the outside, is it?"

"No," said No.1 softly, "it isn't."

"I used to think they were just kids, they'd get over it eventually, if they'd just let themselves. I didn't believe in wanting what you couldn't have."

"But you were the first ever female Recon officer."

"If Vinyaya could be Wing Commander, I could be a Recon captain, that's not the same thing. That's a matter of going through the motions, but going through them better than everyone else. No one offs themselves if they can't be a Recon captain. They don't come home at night and fall to their knees because their body is so empty, so eaten up with loneliness and longing that it can no longer stand. They don't kneel on the floor and beg gods they don't believe in to grant them what they want; promising faith, promising _anything_ if only..." she paused, her voice faltering and fading, "...if only they could bring you back your heart, because you never meant to lose it; never meant to let it get away from you like that... No, you never meant for things to go this far."

No.1 noticed the change in perspective but bit his lip and kept quiet.

"Frond, sometimes I imagine my life in a thousand years, you know. Work and drinks with the boys and having coffee with you and baby-sitting for Foaly and I want those things. It's not matter of not wanting them, because I do, I really do. But I imagine them and think of how he'll not be there and it's like the universe opens up below me and I'm just falling and falling. I try to hold onto something but everything's so black and empty and I can't breathe, I can only fall. But those are sensible things; those are good, solid, normal things. They're all I wanted before. When did they stop being enough?"

No.1 had no answer for her, so she kept talking.

"They're the smart way to go, though, I know that. So I'm trying to make the right choices, I'm trying to fill the universe full of solid things so that when it swallows me up and I'm falling, eventually I'll have something to land on. It's what I should do, I know that."

"But?"

She smiled softly, sadly. "But I can't fill it fast enough. I'm falling already and I'm scared. I'm so scared that without him, there'll never be enough to catch me: that I'll just fall through space, through some endless black vacuum with no light and no life, forever. I'm _scared_ No.1." She looked at him and her eyes were like the universe itself, wide and dark and seemingly endless.

The imp set down his own mug. "Look, Holly, I can spout clichés at you all night, but I think you already know what I'm going to say, don't you?"

Holly swallowed, the immense black of her eyes retreated as the colours began to return. "That I've always been terrible at making good, solid, normal choices?"

"Exactly. And, more importantly, I'm going to be an imp for the rest of my life. So, as it's extremely unlikely that I will ever find someone with whom to spend the next several millennia, I'm going to have to live vicariously. Which means, next time you call me, I want you to be gushing about how bleeping happy you are, capice? I want you to be positively _nauseating_."

"You're sweet, No.1, but-"

"No, I am _not_ sweet. I'm the most powerful being in the universe! I'm terrifying!" He raised his claws to the heavens.

Holly snorted with laughter despite herself, her eyes once again blue and hazel. "No.1-"

"No, Holly, listen. You asked me and, though I'm being cute about it, I mean it. You're the bravest person I know. You've never given up on anyone, so why give up on yourself? After all, it's not like this is the first time you've been up against impossible odds, is it? And the universe has never won before."

"Well, no, but that's different. Not to mention all the other times I've had Artemis on my side."

"Right. Because he's going to be totally adverse to this idea. Uh huh." No.1 raised a ridged eyebrow at her. "Sometimes, I think he invents all these crises just so he can hang out with you."

"You know, I've wondered that myself, at times."

No.1 laughed, his lumpy imp face lighting up. Behind him, it was the oddest thing, she could see the edge of Earth through the window. The universe had turned on its far-off, unknowable axis until the strange, silent, solid mass of the world began to fill up the darkness.


	5. In the Company of Wolves

Merry Christmas! Here's something completely not seasonal. And also odd . It's BYOPOV. In my head it's Trouble but feel free to imagine just about anyone. Title stolen from Angela Carter who started this whole mess to begin with.

Un-beta-ed again so punctuation could be iffy.

* * *

In the Company of Wolves

I've always thought the expression 'lone wolf' was a bit dumb, to tell you the truth. I mean, seriously, you people have hunted them for millennia; how did you fail to notice that they run in packs? Cats, on the other hand, now there are some solitary creatures. So why not the 'lone tiger'? Or the 'lone puma'? Or _something_. Of course, if you had chosen a cat, you'd've probably used a lion and bleeped it up yet again. At least there would've been a little alliteration though. Everything's better with a little alliteration.

Anyway, it's not that I don't get the meaning of the expression. Wolves were the wildest thing you could think of; the fiercest, the fastest, the most ferocious (see what I mean about alliteration?). And, when it comes down to it, you two, you are wolves. You are the fiercest and the fastest and, if we look into your eyes long enough, we can see the beast. I know you both try to hide it, to control it, but we feel it, subconsciously; maybe it's the way you always seem to be standing on the balls of your feet ready to fight or flee. Generally fight, especially when you're together.

Because, like I said, wolves run in packs. And, you two, you've made your own bizarre family tree (bonded by trauma, she jokes, when asked). Wolves are loyal, you see, and, secretly, they get lonely. After all, it's hard keeping such savagery cooped up inside of you, isn't it? It must be exhausting. But when you run together, with your bright eyes and sharp, sleek bodies, you can let yourselves go free. Go wild, as it were. You don't need to hide from one another. At times I wonder if you recognised each other from the very start? If your sensitive noses quivered, smelling blood, hearing it thrum under the other's skin; running, running, running as yours did. Did you eye the other, knowing, at last, that you had met your match, your mate, your family? On some level, perhaps.

And when you're apart? Oh, she howls and howls: screaming, begging, pleading to a moon she can't see. _Bring me back my family. Bring me back my lover, my brother._ She howls without knowing she does it, twisting the sheets, sweating and sobbing. She wakes and says she had the most terrible dreams, but I know the truth. For, when she wakes like that, I can see you lurking in the backs of her eyes. I can see her hunger after you, the ache of it pulling her skin taut against her bones. But it isn't your flesh she's after, no. She licks her lips like she would devour you, but it us you will both devour. It's the innocents who get trapped, who get swallowed then spat out like useless bits of bone. We come to you already caught, ensnared by our own folly, believing that we (at last!) will tame the beast. But you two have neither need nor want of domesticity. You both play the game but all you really want is each other; each other and space enough to run.

I want to live, however, and so I left her. I told her to go back to you, with your black hair and blue eyes, so like the sky she loves. She didn't need my permission, of course, but I thought it might make it easier for her. I wonder how long it took before she was at your window, before she was in your bed, before you were free again? You two are so different, so seemingly ill-suited for each other. But when you run together, and your eyes are bright, and your bodies stretch, so sleek and sharp, the similarities are hard to ignore. You're supposed to be the bad one, the devil, the snake in the garden, but you just have fewer compunctions. She was already reaching for the apple; all she needed was better company.


	6. The Clean White Sheets of a Hothouse Bed

An exercise in descriptive writing. I went overboard, but it was fun. A/H, though I don't name her I feel that's pretty clear.

Posted unbeta-ed, so all run-on sentences are entirely mine and mine alone.

P.S. Re: What the hell does BYOPOV mean? It's a totally unnecessary spin-off of "BYOB" (Bring Your Own Booze): Bring Your Own Point Of View.

* * *

The Clean White Sheets of a Hot House Bed

He had always favoured white sheets. He thought they looked inviting, such an expanse of clean white. As he himself was mostly greyscale, the only exception being the blue of his eyes, he had felt at home in white sheets. Until he woke up one morning to her lying next to him. She was everything his bed was not and her body cut through the peaceful, orderly haven of his bed without even knowing it had done so. There was nothing monochromatic about her. When the sun rose above the window it was as though she had been set on fire, blazing red and gold. He felt super human to be able to touch her and not be burnt.

Today, as he dressed, she lay on the bed, the sheets tangled around her legs. Her arms were curled under her chin and her head had nuzzled under the pillow. He pulled on his black slacks, buttoned his white shirt and she lay there, unconsciously flaunting her luxurious skin. It was ironic, he thought, how someone so tightly controlled could be so completely betrayed by the sensuality of her own flesh. Under orders from her mind, her body was a machine: swift and deadly and nearly sexless. Left to its own devices, however, it was rich and molten and altogether erotic. Like some carnivorous, hot-house flower, whose heavy, blood-red petals lazed in the humid air, it displayed itself shamelessly. It knew, as did the flower's fleshy petals, that the heady sight of itself was all it needed; that such a vision would drive any man mad until - crazed and slavering - he came close enough to swallow.

As he tied his narrow black tie, she stretched, her back arching like a cat's as she murmured his name and turned over.

He brushed her hair back from her face, kissing her temple before he turned to go. "Artemis," she said again, but louder, and he knew she had woken up. "Where are you going?" Her voice was low; it was smooth and warm; it slid, slow and thick, over his skin.

"I have things to do," he told her, coming back to the bed.

She pouted unconsciously, propping herself up on one elbow. Her eyes were heavy-lidded with sleep and a blossoming lust. Her head tilted, lolling on her neck like the heavy bloom of that hot-house flower. Her red hair was tangled and wild, curling around her throat and over her shoulders, falling between her breasts. Every line of her seemed curved: the arch of her throat, the dip of her waist, the wicked curl of her lips. Safe with him, her mind did not make her wanton body behave.

"I really ought to go," he said. But he was smiling, already loosening his tie. He knew there would be no escape for him, even should he have wanted it. She was as inevitable as the tides. Somehow, however, somewhere, at some time, they had made a truce: he kept her hot-house haven safe and secret, with space enough for her to grow; in return, she let him live. She never swallowed him, not like she could. For though she was forever pulling him down into the deep; rushing over him; nearly drowning him; she always returned him gasping, but miraculously alive, to dry land. It was a symbiotic relationship entered into not out of necessity, but out of pleasure.

As he leaned over her, his long legs slipping between hers, he wondered momentarily about the physics of it all: how did her vibrant, arching, swaying body and his thin, hard, colourless one managed to fit together so well? Did his own harsh lines soften or did hers solidify long enough to hold him? He told himself to no to let it worry him. Her body was a joyful, riotous explosion in the clean-cut white of his bed, like she herself had been in his orderly, grey life; he was thankful for it, however it had come about.


	7. A Swollen Heart and a Work of Art

A baffling little ditty of no discernible heritage. Written in one fell swoop and un-betaed, you have been warned.

* * *

A Swollen Heart and a Work of Art

There is a frankly uncomfortable swelling of the organs involved.

That doesn't quite sound the way I intended it to. I mean the internal organs. The heart, the lungs. Possibly the liver as well; it is a condition not unlike inebriation, after all.

The heart swells until it is pressed tight to the rib cage; the bones will leave indents in the soft red flesh and for hours afterwards the heart will be sore with the bruises. Meanwhile, the walls of the lungs thicken, allowing less air to pass through them, until breathing becomes difficult and a rasping, hacking cough an inevitability.

I suppose it is the lack of air that causes the light-headedness, the sense of floating. Perhaps that has something to do with the odd passage of time as well: the way it will suddenly surge forward only to stumble and stall at the worst possible moment.

I would like to explain my symptoms to someone, have them diagnosed by a professional. Seek medical attention, as the saying goes. But I am the most qualified professional I know. Self-diagnosis may be frowned upon but, in this case, I feel that there is little to be gained from a second opinion. Unfortunately.

I say unfortunately but I don't really mean it. Well, I do in the sense that this entire situation is unfortunate and more than slightly absurd. But somehow it is addictive. Somehow, the idea of life without all this hacking and choking and staggering of timelines seems horrendously empty and dull.

Speak of the devil. She's just arrived. Tracking mud across the carpet as per usual. The perfect time for a demonstration. Pay attention now: here comes the heart, beating furiously, ballooning to fill what feels like my entire chest cavity. And now for the lungs, the trachea. Here comes the cough. God, is it difficult to look at her and breathe at the same time. And of course she wants to talk.

"Are you alright, Artemis?"

"Yes, fine, thank you."

"You look a little peaky, are you coming down with something?"

"Nothing new, no."

She's raising her eyebrows, a common response.

"Right, well, why don't I just give you a quite boost to make sure. The last time you got sick you threw up all over my new uniform."

Thank you for the reminder, Holly. So kind. Though, indeed, the Night of the Projectile Vomit is a perfect example of time's treacherous ways. I know that in reality the worst lasted only a few hours but nevertheless it felt, both to me and to her, like several days. You can ask her, she'll agree.

"Please, don't remind me."

"Oh, don't get all embarrassed, everyone gets sick. Here, let me fix you up."

If only you could, my dear, if only you could.

Now her hands are on my face and time is trying to make a fool of me again. But her hands are like works of art, have you noticed? Clever, practical, and oh-so-very-soft works of art.

I believe that my favourite thing about art is how it takes time by the collar and forces it to lie still. It is timeless and, in its presence, you are as well. You are free to simply look and look and look until your eyes are full; until your heart, your lungs, your very veins are brimming; until the image of it can never again leave you because you are absolutely saturated with it, to your very atoms.

To tell you the truth, it's not just her hands. Everything about her is a work of art.


	8. Grass and Citrus

Pure fluff. For my wonderful beta.

PS. I may have made up 'nonsequiturally'.

* * *

Grass and Citrus

Artemis sank stiffly onto a stool, leaning his elbows on the island's marble top. Across from him, Butler was making himself a sandwich. Artemis eyed the other man's lunch, squinting at it nearsightedly as though he couldn't fathom what on earth it was doing there in front of him.

"Tired?" asked Butler, reaching across to turn on the kettle.

Artemis grunted, his head falling into his hands; his slender fingers threading through the uncombed mess of his hair.

"Did you sleep at all last night?" He measured Earl Grey into a teapot and sliced a lemon. The sharp citrus smell made Artemis's nostrils flare.

Wordlessly, Artemis shook his head.

"Working on something interesting?" Butler placed a cup and saucer next to his charge.

Still mute, Artemis raised his head, fixing Butler with a cold glare.

Butler raised his eyebrows as he warmed the pot. "You're the one interrupting _my_ lunch, Artemis. I'm just making conversation."

Artemis sighed and looked down at his pale hands. Butler accepted the apology just as silently. He placed the full teapot next to the plate of lemon.

"It's a disaster, Butler. An unmitigated disaster." Artemis picked up a leftover slice of cucumber from Butler's cutting board and chewed it moodily.

"Your work?"

"My life," replied Artemis dramatically.

"Ah, of course."

"I'm not getting a thing done, Butler. Not a thing." Disdainfully, he picked the trouser-legs of his rumpled, day-old suit. "I'm not even capable of dressing myself, it seems. Good _God_."

"Tea's ready," said Butler.

Artemis placed the little silver strainer over his cup and poured for himself. He picked up a lemon slice, looked at it as though it were somehow challenging him, then put it back on the plate.

"Don't feel like lemon today?" Butler asked. "Sour enough just on your own, are you?"

"Grass and citrus," Artemis sneered non-sequiturally.

"If you say so," said Butler, slicing his sandwich into quarters.

Artemis shot the lemon one last look of loathing and then gave in, squeezing a slice into his tea. Delicately, he sucked the extra juice off his fingertips. "I am not sour," he retorted primly, somewhat after the fact.

"No, of course not." Butler sat down and began to eat, determined not to let Artemis's mood get in the way of a perfectly good cucumber sandwich.

"I'm serious, though, Butler. Something must be done. I have things to do, I cannot continue to be distracted in this ridiculous manner indefinitely."

"Well, what's distracting you? You were up all night. If you weren't working, what were you doing?" The sandwich was heavenly. He'd even cut the crusts off.

Artemis pursed his lips. "I don't want to talk about it," he said and drank his tea.

"You interrupted my lunch for something you don't want to talk about?"

Obstinately, Artemis continued drinking.

Butler shrugged and went back to eating.

"It's Holly."

The enormous man looked up, his mouth full. He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

Artemis sighed. "It's Holly," he said again. "I always seem to be... talking to her. On the phone, I mean," he continued hastily when he saw Butler's expression grow worried. "Not in my head. There just always seems to be something else to say to one another. I lose track of time."

Butler swallowed his mouthful. "Well, surely you can't be on the phone twenty four hours a day, Holly's got a job."

"No, of course we aren't."

"Well, then?"

"Yes, well, exactly. You'd think that would be that, wouldn't you?" Artemis refused to meet Butler's eyes, peering past him to the windows instead.

"But?"

Artemis spoke to the dewy, early-morning Irish countryside, his expression pained. "I don't know how, but it seems that I spend the rest of the time... thinking about her. And then somehow, between _talking_ to her and _thinking_ about her, my time quite vanishes."

"Ah, young love," said Butler, smiling.

His charge turned back to him, clearly unimpressed.

"Oh, Artemis, don't worry about it. So you've got a crush, so what? It'll pass."

Artemis picked up another slice of lemon, fiddling with it momentarily before squeezing it too into his tea. He laid his fingers on his lips, as though thinking.

"But therein lies the rub, my dear Butler," he said at last, picking up his teacup and sipping, a smile playing in the corners of his mouth. "I don't wish it to."


	9. Full of Grace

I read HolidayBoredom's "Eight Days" Saturday morning and, like many of you I'm sure, bawled my eyes out. I decided straight away afterwards to write something happy and uplifting to counteract it.

Unfortunately I just I got a call from my sister, in hysterics, saying that a friend of ours - one of her dearest friends - had died with his girlfriend and their housemate in a freak house fire. These were all really beautiful people who were (aren't we all?) far too young to die.

I am seven thousand kilometres from home and I can't hold my sister so I'm trying, sloppily and somewhat pointlessly, to find some sort of catharsis here. So this is for Mark and Emily. But also for Emma, because the living have to go on living.

Check your fire alarms, people, and tell the people you love that you love them.

* * *

Full of Grace

The council made their decision: it was not to be borne. He accepted the verdict as calmly as he accepted everything. She closed her eyes but said nothing. He asked for twenty-four hours with her. Just to straighten their affairs. One last day. It was granted.

She closed her eyes but said nothing.

* * *

"Are you sure?" He only asked once.

She nodded. "Are you?"

"Yes."

* * *

When he came into the room there were candles everywhere. On the window sills, on the dresser, on the desk, on the floor. She sat like a queen on the white sheets of the bed. Naked, she made no pretense at modesty - it was far, far too late for hiding now. He was glad of it. Her skin in the flickering light took his breath away.

As he crossed the room, stepping carefully between the candles, he shed his clothes, piece by piece.

"I've never told you," he said as his tie fell to the floor, "but you're impossibly beautiful." His suit jacket next, then his cuff-links "I've always thought so." Now his shirt and his belt. "Ever since the first time we ... I .. saw you." Then, with some difficulty, his socks and his shoes. "I meant to tell you sooner, but somehow..." Lastly his trousers and his pants. "Somehow things kept getting in the way."

"There's nothing in the way now," she said.

"No," he agreed, taking her face in his hands. "A small blessing."

She snaked her arms around his neck and kissed him. He could feel the heat of the flames on the back of his legs.

He laid her down in the sheets and all around them the lights flickered and crackled. Everything seemed golden: the walls, the sheets, his skin, hers. She smiled up at him, so sure and happy and loving. Her mismatched eyes reflected the lights. He wanted to look at her forever.

"It's what every LEP jock dreams of," she murmured, laughing a little. "Going down in a blaze of glory."

But he couldn't laugh. "I should have told you," he said. "Why didn't I tell you?"

"Perspective is a fluid thing," she soothed him, smoothing back his hair; kissing his temples, his cheeks, his neck. "Besides, I already knew. You're not as subtle as you like to think."

He did smile then.

Slowly, painfully, they let the past fall away, for it had never done them any favours. Just as hesitantly they forgot about the future, for it had never cared to remember them.

No, the present was the only time they could trust and, in the end, they let it swallow them whole. It was their skin and their sweat and their mouths against each others. It was their skittering breath and hammering hearts. It was their minds falling from one into the other. It was their longed-for homecoming; their final dissolution into the other.

The present stretched around them, stretched until it had to snap, and left them where they fell, panting, in the tangled sheets.

He laid his head on her chest and she dipped her fingers in the bowl of oil she'd placed on the bedside table. She began to write on his back; he could feel the words sink into body, his bones. The oil cooled his sweat. She was writing him a love letter.

When she had finished, he buried his face in her skin, her words too much for him. She smelt of sweat and smoke and him and yet still, so faintly, of grass and citrus. He dipped his fingers in the oil and wrote his reply. His words made her skin glisten and he kissed them when he was done. The kerosene tasted almost sweet.

They lay down without bothering to fix the sheets. He curled around her, his cheek on her red hair.

"Tell me," she whispered. He could hear the cost of it all finally find its way into her voice. "Tell me, if we're stuck like this," her voice even softer now, "would it be so bad?"

"No," he said. His arms tightened around her as though he could protect her from all that had come before and all that would come after. "No, it wouldn't be."

He kissed her hair and she smiled, winding her fingers through his. And so they lay until they fell asleep.

* * *

She dreamed they were lying on a hillside watching the sun set. It was larger than life: a molten red ball sinking below a distant horizon. The whole sky blazed red and gold. She could feel the heat of it on her cheeks.

"If we ever die," she said, fiddling with the grass below her, "I want there to be nothing left of us. Nothing left for them to separate and divide. I don't think even my ashes could do without yours."

He laughed, the hot wind fanning through his hair. "Don't worry," he told her, "I've taken care of it."

She rolled onto her elbows, looking down at him. "I know you have," she said, "You always do."

His face was full of joy as she leaned down and kissed him. Above them the sky burned but they paid it no attention.

When they broke apart the world had been remade. The heavens had come crashing down and from their ashes the moon had risen - so high and clear and calm - to fill the world with grace.

* * *

"I should have known," said Butler.

"It's not your fault," said Foaly.

"No," the man agreed, "but I should have seen it coming."

"If it's any comfort the report says the smoke got to them first. They didn't feel a thing."

"How can they know that? All that was left were a few teeth."

"They have their ways. Trust me, it's true."

Butler didn't know if it was or it wasn't. But either way, it helped. Because, somehow, the living, he knew, had to go on living.

"Thank you," he said.


	10. The Slow Burn

The site is doing something interesting (and by 'interesting' I mean 'annoying') where it doesn't let me upload documents. So we're trying out the "copy and paste" function. Apologies in advance if this goes terribly awry.

Anyway, here is a very short, very speedily written ditty that is pure fluff. Was trolling through the old, old, _old_ AF fanfiction archives and was struck by how depressing a lot of it was. Yes, misery can be beautiful. But so can happiness, dammit! So, in a weak effort to support my case, I give you this.

* * *

The Slow Burn

The Samuel Beckett bridge rises like some futuristic whale breaching the river Liffey. The wind is cold and wet and bites into the skin. It is November, however, and no one expects anything better from the weather. Artemis looks down into the choppy grey water, but there is nothing there to hold his attention.

Balancing on the middle rung of the guard rail, she shrugs up the wide collar of her wool coat, trying, in vain, to protect her face from the wind.

"I don't know how you people stand it," she says.

"Better bad weather than no weather," he replies.

She smiles, eyeing him over the edge of her collar. "Touché."

He leans against her, his shoulder pressing against hers. As a child, he had always thought his life would be rather like a heist movie: full of well-dressed villains and daring deeds and witty banter.

"Ugh, how can I be so wet when it's not even raining." She scrunches up her face, brushing the hair from her eyes. Her red fringe is limp and heavy with damp. "I swear, you could _wring_ water out of me."

He rests his head on her shoulder. Before him, beads of water hang precariously from the fibres of her jacket, reflecting the grey world around them with crystalline clarity. _It's quite beautiful,_ he thinks, _this inverted world_.

Certainly, he has played the part of the well-dressed villain. The well-dressed hero even, once or twice. In those days, there were plenty of daring deeds. (Possibly too many, when one looks back on it with a more mature and more mortal eye.) He nuzzles into the crook of her neck, smiling. And there has certainly never been a shortage of witty banter.

"Why don't I take you home and we can wring you out there," he offers.

She chuckles deep in her throat. "That sounds promising."

But the years had gone by and, more to their surprise than anyone else's, his life had become something altogether different. For, though it would disgust his younger self no end, his life, it turns out, isn't a heist movie at all; instead, it bears a remarkable resemblance to a romance.

"I'm awfully cold, though," she says and he can hear the smile in her voice. "After I'm wrung out will I be warmed up?"

"Of course. I'll see to it personally."

Somehow, somewhere, his life became one of those rare love stories that doesn't end in tragedy and fatal passion. After all its fitful starts and stops, all the violence and uncertainty of its beginnings, now it is a slow burning flame that flickers, but never goes out.

"Well, I suppose that's an offer I really can't refuse." Holly looks down at him and, despite the years, her mismatched eyes still thrill him.

_Let me always be with you_, he thinks.

She turns, winding her arms around his neck, letting him take her weight. "Take me home, Artemis," she says, her cold cheek pressed to his.

And so he does. So he always will.


	11. To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

Procrastination in its purest form.

Edited 12.03.13 because apparently I decided punctuate blindly the first time round. Also, added a timeline, just in case there was confusion.

* * *

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

"You need to sleep."

She snorted. "I'll sleep when I'm dead."

"Which will be sooner rather than later if you don't sleep."

As usual, she ignored him, turning her sore, red-rimmed eyes to the chrysalis. "Everything still going to plan?"

"You know it is, so go to sleep."

"Well, after that whole 'sixth toe' fiasco..." In a rare moment of weakness, she leaned her forehead on the cool glass of the tube.

He whinnied, insulted, his tail twitching in annoyance. "One little mistake... I told you, that's sorted now. We're 100% on schedule."

She sighed, her eyes drifting shut as she let more of her weight fall against the chrysalis. "I'm sorry. You're doing an incredible job, it's a miracle he's here at all."

"If you really wanted to apologise, you would go and get some sleep."

She pushed herself off the chrysalis and sagged into a nearby chair. "Alright, alright. I'll go. In a minute. I'm just going to sit here for bit, I think. Just for a minute. Only a minute."

He bit his lip, watching her eyelids flutter, trying desperately to stay open. "You need to sleep," he whispered.

"I know," she said, her own voice soft. "I know. I just... I don't want to. It's...when I sleep, I dream."

"About what?"

Her eyes opened fully, meeting his. "Happy things," she whispered.

"Well, what's wrong with that? A little cheer would do you a world of good, quite frankly."

She gave him wry, crooked smile, as if laughing at herself; as if laughing at something more painful than funny. "Yes, but see, it's not the dreaming that's bad, it's the waking up again."

He didn't have an answer for that.

* * *

Ten years later:

Artemis pressed the Ops booth intercom, stated his name, and was buzzed in immediately.

"Foaly," he smiled, leaning on the edge of a worktable.

"Mulch sneak you down again?" The centaur swung his swivel-chair around to face the human.

Artemis shook his head. "I have a visa this time. The Commander is in need of my services, much to his chagrin."

"Poor Trouble. Still, always nice to see you." Foaly smiled. "Though it's still a little strange to admit that."

Artemis' lips twitched. "No matter how many years go by."

Foaly shrugged, chuckling. "Old habits die hard. Especially with the People."

"Mm," Artemis agreed, watching Foaly through half-closed eyes. "Speaking of time passing, Foaly, I've been meaning to ask you something."

"Oh yes? I'm flattered." The centaur eyed the man with a vague unease.

Artemis smiled, showing his teeth. "I'm twenty-nine next month, Foaly."

"Happy birthday, but I'm not sure I follow."

"Look at me," Artemis gestured to himself. "Do I appear to be twenty-nine?"

"Well, you're kind of asking the wrong person here, Artemis. For us twenty-nine is all braces and bad skin."

The man sighed. "I look the same as I did when I came out of the chrysalis, Foaly, and you are well aware of the fact."

"Alright, well, sure, you do seem to be ageing well, but I did pump you full of vitamins and magic for six months before letting you loose on the world."

Artemis cocked an eloquent eyebrow.

Foaly rolled his shoulders, reaching for a carrot.

"Foaly, what did you do to me?"

"I don't know what you mean." He refused to meet Artemis' eyes.

"Foaly."

"Really, I -"

"_Foaly_."

The centaur ran a hand through his hair. "Okay, fine, let's say... let's say, _hypothetically-speaking_, that, perhaps, just maybe, your DNA was... altered... during the cloning process."

Artemis raised his other eyebrow to meet the first. "I had got that far by myself, Foaly. I want details."

Foally pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, Artemis, while you were... gone... things weren't good. And by 'weren't good' I mean they were completely and utterly fucked."

"Would I be right in assuming that by 'things' you mean a diminutive ginger who would resent being referred to as a thing."

"You would."

"What exactly did you do?"

"Well," Foaly shrugged, "let's put it this way: if just one eye was enough to get you into trouble with an elf-sensitive spell, I wouldn't go jumping into any more any time soon if I were you. You've got a lot more than just an eyeball's worth these days."

"Ah." Artemis digested this quickly and quietly. After a moment he raised his head. "How long have I got, then?"

"At least five hundred, I'd say. Possibly a thousand, but that would be pushing it."

"And what if I don't want to live that long? Did you even consider that?"

"Well, you can always off yourself if you like." Foaly was joking, but his face quickly grew serious. "Artemis, believe me, I considered it long and hard. I like you, Mud Man. You're a friend. A good friend. But if I have to choose between you and her, I'm sorry, it's always going to be her. Every time. This may have been an amazingly dumb idea, but I was desperate. I was going for damage control, pure and simple."

"I never thought having my life extended would be considered 'damage control' by the People."

"Look, you weren't there for those six months. You have no idea. Not to mention, _then_ there was still hope. You weren't necessarily gone for good. But what would happen sixty years down the road when you bit the dust for real? I'm sorry, but I'm not willing to find out. At least five hundred years is a life together. That's as much as anyone can hope for."

"And you didn't think to tell me? You didn't honestly believe I wouldn't notice an extra five hundred years, would you?"

Foaly looked uncomfortable. "No, but I thought I'd cross that bridge when I came to, if I had to come to it. It could've been passed off as a quirk in the procedure."

"Jesus, Foaly." It was Artemis' turn to run his hand through his hair.

"Look, Artemis, I'm -"

"I've wasted a _decade_!" The man flung his arms out wide.

"Prepared to accept the - sorry, come again?"

"A decade, Foaly, you fool. You should have told me sooner!"

"I...uh... what?"

"Do you honestly think I would have let Holly date that insipid elf from Retrieval if I had known I was going to live for centuries? Or made up pathetic excuses to keep her from spending her days off with me and not out with her co-workers? A decade, Foaly, a _decade_."

"I really don't think she'd take kindly to you saying you 'let' her date Finn."

Artemis waved this away impatiently. "I would have got rid of him if it had been necessary."

"I hope you mean that in a 'convinced her he was no good for her' way and not in a 'have him murdered and thrown in a magma chute' way."

"Of course. Well, I might have arranged for something embarrassing to happen to him in the LEP cafeteria." He paused, peering off into a corner. "In fact, I still might. Lately, he's been calling her when he's drunk. I dislike it."

"Right," said Foaly. "And how do you know he calls? Please tell me you haven't tapped her communicator."

"Of course not, she told me." Artemis tutted again. "Finally I'm in a position to tell her what I really think of the pig."

"Secretly, you're the jealous type, aren't you?"

Artemis smiled his vampire smile.

"You know," Foaly mused, "I always figured you two would do the whole 'star-crossed lovers' thing and get together despite the time limit."

Artemis grew serious once more. "I know that sounds romantic and uplifting when read about, but it's much harder in practice than in theory. Knowing that every happy moment is only going to make the heartbreak worse later on makes it rather difficult to enjoy oneself, I'm afraid. If it had been me left alone with so many years ahead of me and so few behind, then maybe I would have convinced her of it. But as it stood how on earth could I have done that? No, I discouraged it the moment I regained my memories and realised what was happening. Like you, I was aiming for damage control."

They were silent for a moment, both considering.

Artemis spoke first. "I only hope I haven't discouraged it too much. I really do _loathe_ irony."

As if in response, the intercom rang, a familiar voice coming through the speakers. "Foaly, you in there?"

The occupants of the Ops booth smiled at each other. "Speak of the devil," said Artemis.

Foaly buzzed Holly through. The elf swept in, helmet under one arm, jacket over the other. "Just came by to say good morning, I'm done for the – Artemis. I... what are you doing down here?"

"Contract work. Your beloved Commander is in need of assistance."

"What, he needed you to entertain Foaly?"

Artemis smiled. "Unfortunately, no. But I thought it was only right that I make full use of my 24 hour visa."

"Oh." Her face fell slightly.

"I requested that Trouble not tell you," he explained. "I was going to surprise you. I thought I would ask if you wanted to see the latest installment of our movie franchise. I hear Skylar Peat has truly outdone herself this time."

Holly brightened at once. "Sure. If you'd rather, I can even get it on my home system. Unless you were hoping to run into your little fan club again," she smirked. "I hope you brought a felt tipped marker, if so. It can't be nice having one's breasts autographed in fountain pen."

Artemis looked slightly ill. "Your living room will be just fine, Major. I have no desire to sign any piece of fairy anatomy ever again, thank you _very_ much." He came away from the table and laid a hand on her shoulder. "Shall we? I've got something I'd like to tell you."

"Something private?" she raised a mocking eyebrow.

"Something Foaly's already heard," he told her. His voice was light but something in his expression made the blood rise to her face. "Wouldn't want to bore him with a repeat performance."

She glanced back at Foaly. The centaur waved a hand. "You two go on. I'm almost done here anyway."

"Do you want to come too?" she asked. "We can wait."

"Gods, no," said Foaly. "Three's a crowd, Holly."

"Foaly, don't be -"

"Trust me, Holly. Tonight, three's definitely one too many."

"What on earth are you two up to?" she wondered aloud. But she didn't resist as Artemis led her out into the hall. As they walked away, she glanced up to find he was still watching her. His blue were eyes soft and dark, the way they were when she caught him looking at her when he thought she wouldn't see. This time, however, he didn't look away, but held her gaze, his smile growing.


	12. Here There Be Monsters

Sad story. Holly post-AFII death. Not the most succinct thing I've ever written, but there you are.

* * *

Here There Be Monsters

Usually, I'm fine. I mean, it's been, what, a hundred years? Two? I'm over it. Most of the time.

It's just, every now and then, I'm not properly prepared. All it takes is an unexpected flicker of blue as I pass a mirror, a window. My reaction is sudden, swift, and inescapable.

The pain is a living creature forever waiting for its chance. And, when I pause, caught off guard, it swings its bloody, black arm high. Its claws are already cake in my blood, but it is insatiable. With the inevitability of an undertow below a calm, blue surface, it takes me down, claws caught in my heart and lungs. My knees buckle and I put my hands out blindly, desperately, for something to keep me up, keep me afloat. For something to stop the bleeding.

In those moments, as the frantic beating of my heart fills my head, I think, with miraculous clarity: Extraordinary. What have I lost?

But the expanse of what I have lost is too wide, too deep, for my shallow vocabulary. My love - my grief - stretches miles in all directions, hidden below that calm, blue surface. I stand on the shore and look out at the unattainable horizon. Occasionally, I even dip my toes in the shallows. But I don't wade out deeper. For, in the wild, far-flung corners of my loss, there are things I cannot face. Truly, my love, here there be monsters.

And we both know that one day they will not settle for an occasional curbside mauling; one day, they will rise from the depths and devour me whole.

But the pain brings relief with it. Because at least when I am on my knees, with its claws in my back, I can admit (quietly, though, so only it and I can hear) that:

Oh, it was extraordinary, what I lost.


	13. The Blue Danube

Uninspiring and unoriginal fluff to follow. For those who are sick of writing essays, studying for exams, or the fact that it'll be April on Monday and there is still snow on the ground.

* * *

The Blue Danube

Artemis was working at his desk when she arrived. Head in hand, he scribbled madly on pad of legal paper. He was in shirtsleeves, his tie hanging loose from a limp collar, and his hair stuck up at all angles, clearly uncombed. Crouching, invisible, on his window sill, Holly smiled fondly to herself. It wasn't often that she could just look at him.

He looked up suddenly, his head rising from his hand. There was a red mark from where his fingers had pressed into his forehead. He stared directly at her, brow furrowed, almost as if he could see her. Holly sighed. Knowing him, he probably could. Somehow.

She fizzled into the visible spectrum and opened the window.

"Hey, Artemis."

"Hello, Holly. I was wondering when you were going to come in." A smirk came and went, replaced by something softer. He rolled his shoulders to loosen them and leaned back in his chair, letting himself slouch a little.

"I don't want to know." Refusing to rise to his bait, she tossed her helmet on the bed and crossed the room towards him. "How are you? You look beat."

"I feel about as well as I look then."

"Working on something?" She leaned on the arm of his chair, standing on tiptoes to try to get a look at his work. He flipped the legal pad shut and pushed it away into a pile of other papers.

"Nothing important," he said.

She raised an eyebrow.

"Nothing that will have you out of bed at all hours cursing my name while the world as we know it comes crashing down around our ears, at least," he smiled.

She pulled herself up onto the desk so that she sat facing him. "Can I get that in writing?"

He chuckled. "How about scout's honour?"

She snorted. "You were never a scout. Not binding."

"Fair point," he smiled, settling deeper into his chair, watching her, his eyes only half open.

They sat for a moment, smiling at each other, before Holly realised what was happening. She shook herself from her reverie. "Nice song," she said, gesturing to the record player in the corner. "I think I may even have heard it before."

"I wouldn't be surprised," said Artemis. "It's the Hokusai's Wave of classical music."

"Come again?"

"It's been over-played." Artemis clarified, waving one finger in time to the waltz. "But, if you avoid it for long enough, then come back to it, it has a certain charm. It's not the most subtle or moving piece of music, but it does conjure up rather a beautiful, vivid picture of nineteenth century Vienna. A time when the rich still know how to be rich."

Holly raised her eyebrows. "Are you lot losing that ability? Didn't realise you could."

"Oh, it's quite lost already, I'm afraid. Have you ever heard of Paris Hilton?"

Holly shook her head.

"And I hope you never do," said Artemis fervently. "A dreadful conversationalist."

"Right." She kicked her legs out, once, twice. "So what's it called?"

"The song?"

She nodded, swaying a little in time to the rhythm, despite herself.

"In English it's known as The Blue Danube. It's by Strauss."

"After the river?"

"Exactly. It's a waltz."

"That's a dance, right?"

"Correct."

"Well?" She gestured to the floor with one hand.

"Well what, exactly?"

"Aren't you going to demonstrate?"

"The waltz?" Artemis' eyebrows disappeared into his fringe. "Good God, no. You are quite capable of mocking me without my adding fuel to the fire."

"Aw, come on, Artemis." She grinned, "I won't laugh. Scouts' honour."

"Never having been a scout is one of our few shared childhood experiences."

She laughed. "Alright then, alright. I came all the way up here to visit you on my only time off all month and you won't spend thirty seconds dancing for me, it's fine, I get it."

"You're shameless," said Artemis.

"Takes one to know one."

Artemis sighed, pushing himself out of the chair. "Are you sure we couldn't just have tea instead?"

"Quit stalling."

"If I hear about this from Foaly, I'll know who to blame," he warned, raising his arms as though holding an invisible partner.

"It'll be our little secret," Holly smirked.

"I suppose one more couldn't hurt." And, with that, he set off in a clumsy circle, bobbing along in the 3/4 time. Holly could practically hear him count _one_-two-three-_one_-two-three as he twirled. She leaned back on her hands and, for the second time that night, enjoyed just watching him.

He finished with a flourish and a bow, and she clapped, holding true to her word not to laugh. Smiling, but slightly out of breath, he put his arms out and let his weight fall against the desk, his hands coming down on either side of her. Their faces were very close, suddenly and Artemis was smiling in a way that made Holly decidedly uncomfortable.

She swallowed. "See? That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"It was atrocious," murmured Artemis, his nose brushing her cheek. Holly looked up at the ceiling. He drew back slightly to look at her. "Why, Major," he chuckled, "are you blushing?"

"What? No. Of course not." She made to push him away but he caught her arms. He held them gently, his thumbs running across the soft skin of her wrists.

"My, my, someone's pulse is racing," he smiled. Holly glared at him.

"I am going to break your face, Fowl."

He leaned in close again, his breath warm against her neck. "Turn about's fair play, Short. But don't worry, I won't tell if you won't. What's one more little secret?"

"Break it into little tiny pieces."

He laughed and released her. Immediately, she crossed her arms over her chest.

"You're a jerk," she said, fully aware of how petulant she sounded.

"And yet, _you're_ the one visiting _me_." He sank back into his chair, legs stretched out in front of him, fingers steepled under his chin.

She threw him a filthy look and crossed her legs too, just for good measure. He smiled at her.

Looking down at her crossed arms, she untangled one and held it up, eyeing the inside of her wrist. After a moment, she held her arm out towards him. "Could you..." she looked away and then back, "Could you just keep doing that thing with your thumb? It felt nice."

Without a word, he took her hand in his.


End file.
